Judgment in Death

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Eve made copies of the message, took the disc and the files into evidence, and turned the computer over to Feeney. He'd haul it into EDD, take it apart, run his scans and checks. That was for form, she knew. The killer had left nothing of himself on the machine but his single personal message to her.

Ricker was on her list, and she meant to take him down. But he couldn't be, wouldn't be a priority. Whatever his connection to the killer, Ricker wasn't the one at the controls.

She was after a rogue cop, and if he wanted to go head-to-head with her, that was fine. But he wouldn't threaten her into shifting her focus. There was a process to be gone through, and she meant to take it step by meticulous step.

She harassed the sweepers, called the lab personally and issued a few threats of her own along with her demand for priority on the samples she was sending in. As far as she was concerned, if she had to work twenty-four/seven until the case was closed, she would do so. And so would everyone on her team.

– =O=-***-=O=-

Roarke had a different process to work through, a different priority. And an entirely different style. He hadn't wasted time asking what Eve intended to do or arguing with her over taking precautions for her personal safety.

He left her with her work and made the trip back to New York alone. By the time he'd arrived, he'd already begun the groundwork on his own plans.

He pulled up in front of Purgatory, uncoded the door. The wreckage had been removed, and the first layers of repair were already under way. It wasn't the elegant arena of sin it had been, but it would be. Very soon.

The lights were on, shimmering over the floor with its newly laid squares of reflective silver squares and circles. The mirrors behind the bar had been replaced, in a deep blue glass per his instructions. The overall effect was somewhat otherworldly.

Or perhaps, he thought, underworldly, which was his intent.

He moved to the bar and was pouring two snifters of brandy when Rue MacLean came down the long, curving stairs.

"I ran a security check," she said, smiling a little. "We're up and running. You work fast."

"We'll be open for business within seventy-two hours."

"Seventy-" She picked up the snifter he nudged over the bar, blew out a breath. "How?"

"I'll deal with it. I want you to put the staff on notice in the morning, get the work schedules done tonight. We reopen Friday night, and we reopen with a bang." He lifted his snifter, watching her.

"You're the boss."

"That's right." He took out his cigarettes, left the case on the bar as he lighted one. "How did he get to you?"

He saw just the barest glint of panic before puzzlement slid over her face. "What?"

"He's been using my place to do a little business. Oh, nothing too overt, nothing too important. Just enough so he can sit smug in his little fortress and imagine fucking me over with my own. He'll get sloppy after a bit, if he hasn't already. That's his pattern. Makes him dangerous, that carelessness of his. Might be that the cop who died here began to sniff something, just a whiff of it. Then he was dead before he could follow through."

She'd gone pale, so pale her skin was nearly translucent. "You think Ricker had the cop killed?"

He drew in smoke, watching her through the veil of it as he exhaled. "No, I don't, at least not directly. But the timing's interesting. Bad timing for the cop. Potentially for me, and certainly for you, Rue."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

She started to step back, but Roarke simply laid a hand over hers, the pressure firm enough to warn her to hold her place. "Don't." He spoke softly, and she shivered. "You'll only piss me off. I'm asking how he got to you. I'm asking because we've been in the way of being friends for a considerable amount of time now."

"You know there's nothing between me and Ricker."

"I'd hoped there wasn't." He angled his head. "You're trembling. Do you think I'll hurt you? Have you ever seen me strike a woman, Rue?"

"No." One tear, huge, glistening, spilled over and trailed down her white cheek. "No, you wouldn't. It's not your way."

"But it's his. How did he hurt you?"

It was shame now that pushed tears from her eyes, had her voice choked with them. "Oh God, Roarke. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. He had me picked up off the street, two of his men, right on the street. They took me out to his place, and he-Jesus, he had lunch, this fancy lunch all spread out in his solarium. He told me how it was going to be, and what would happen to me if I didn't go along."

"So you went along."

"Not at first." She fumbled one of his cigarettes out, tried to light one. Roarke took her hand, held it steady until the flame caught. "You've been good to me. Treated me with respect and with fairness. I know you don't have to believe me, but I told him to go to hell. I told him that when you found out what he'd tried to do, you'd… well, I made up all sorts of interesting, nasty things you'd do. He just sat there, that vicious little smile on his face, until I ran down. I was scared. I was so scared, the way he watched me. Like I was a bug he was contemplating squashing if the mood struck. Then he said a name, and an address. My mother's name. My mother's address."

Her breath hitched as she picked up the snifter, drank quick and drank deep to steady herself. "He showed me videos. He'd had her watched-her in the little house upstate I bought her-that you helped me buy her. Shopping, going to a friend's house, just day-to-day stuff. I wanted to be enraged, I wanted to be furious, but I couldn't get through the terror of it. I would go along, he told me-and really, he said, what harm was it-and my mother wouldn't be raped and tortured and disfigured."

"I would have seen her safe, Rue. You could have trusted me to see her safe."

She shook her head. "He always knows the weak spot. Always knows. It's his gift. And he presses down on that spot, until you'd do anything to make him stop. So I betrayed you to make him stop." She brushed tears away. "I'm sorry."

"He won't touch your mother, I promise you. I've a place she can go and be safe until we're done with this."

Rue stared at him. "I don't understand."

"You'll feel better once she's seen to, and I need your energies focused on the club for the next few days."

"You're keeping me on? After this?"

"I don't have a mother, but I know what it is to love beyond yourself, and just what you'd do to keep that love safe from harm. I'll say you should have trusted me, Rue, and so you should. But I don't blame you."

She sat then, buried her face in her hands. He topped off the brandy as she wept soundlessly, then got a bottle of water, opened it, set it in front of her. "Go on, drink that first, clear your head a bit."

"This is why he hates you." Her voice was raw but steady. "Because of everything you are, everything he could never be. He can't understand what's inside you, what makes you. So he hates. He doesn't just want you dead. He wants you ruined."

"I'm counting on it. Now, I'm going to tell you what it is we're going to do."

– =O=-***-=O=-

Eve figured she'd been playing the marriage game for going on a year, so she knew the moves. The easiest way to dodge a problem with Roarke over her handling of the case was not to talk to him about it for as long as humanly possible.

To buy time, she called home on her car-link, shifting to silent mode. She channeled the call to the bedside 'link, figuring he'd most likely be in his office. This way when the message light blinked on, he wouldn't be there to see it and intercept.

"Hey." She gave the screen a quick, distracted smile. "Figured I should let you know I'll be at Central. I'll catch some sleep there. Mostly I'll be working straight through after a swing by the lab to nag Dickhead for results. I'll tag you when I get a chance. See you."

She broke transmission and wasn't aware she let out a quiet, relieved breath until she caught Peabody's gimlet stare. "What?"

"Want a single woman's take on that marriage-go-round?"

"No."

"You know he's going to have some choice words to say about you ignoring the threat," Peabody went on, unperturbed by Eve's scowl. "So you're dancing around him. Too busy to talk, don't wait up." She couldn't resist a snort. "Like that's going to work."

"Shut up." Eve shifted in her seat, tried biting her tongue, then gave up. "Why won't it work?"

"Because you're slick, Dallas, but he is way slicker. He might even let you tango awhile, then… bop."

"Bop? What the hell is bop?"

"I don't know, because I'm not as slick as either one of you. But we'll both know it when we see it." Peabody stifled a yawn as they pulled up to the lab. "I haven't ridden in a black and white for awhile." She patted the thin, miserably uncomfortable seat. "I haven't missed it."

"It was the best I could do. I'm going to get grief for commandeering this at the scene, but my unit's trash."

"Nah." Peabody yawned again, rubbed her eyes. "The uniform you snagged it from's too much in awe. He'll probably put a plaque in this thing. Eve Dallas sat here."

"Give me a break." But the idea made her snicker as they climbed out. "I want you to contact Maintenance. They don't hate you as much as me. Yet. Get them to put my unit back in shape."

"It'll go quicker if I lie and put in the request under another badge number."

"Yeah, you're right. Use Baxter's. You're punchy," she added when Peabody yawned again. "When we're done here, take an hour's down time, or pop some Wake-Up, whatever. I need you focused."

"I'll get my second wind."

The guard at the door looked as if he'd missed his second wind altogether and was sliding under his third. His eyes were half closed, his uniform wrinkled, and he had a sleep crease deep into his right cheek.

"You're coded in," was all he said and lumbered back to his station.

"This place is like a tomb at night." Peabody gave a little shudder. "Worse than the morgue."

"We'll liven things up."

She didn't expect Dickie to be happy to see her. But then again, she hadn't expected to once again hear Mavis's voice blasting into the air when she stepped into the main lab.

Chief Lab Tech Berenski, not so affectionately known as Dickhead, was hunched over a compu-scope, his skinny butt twitching as he sang tunelessly along.

At that moment, Eve knew she could ask for the moon and the stars. She had a solid-gold bargaining chip.

"Hey, Dickie."

"That's Mister Dickie to you." He lifted his head and she saw she'd been right. Happy, he was not. His eyes were puffy, his oversized lips snarling. And, she noted, his shirt was on inside out. "Get me out of bed middle of the night. Everything's always an emergency with you, Dallas. Everything's priority one. Just keep off my ass. You'll get results when I got results and not a minute before. Go somewhere and stop breathing down my neck."

"But I get off just being near you."

He slid his eyes up and over, studied her dubiously. Usually she came in with both feet poised to kick him in the ass. You just couldn't trust her when she was smiling and joking around.

"You're in a pretty chipper mood for somebody who's got bodies piling up and the brass ready to crawl down your drawers."

"What can I say? This music just gives me happy feet. You know Mavis has a gig coming up here next week. I heard it was sold out. Did you hear it was sold out, Peabody?"

"Yeah." She might have been tired, but Peabody clued in quickly. "A one-night-only, too. She's pretty hot."

"She's beyond hot," Dickie said. "I got me two tickets. Pulled a few strings. Second balcony."

"Those kind of strings make your nose bleed." Eve examined her fingernails. "I can get two in the orchestra, with backstage passes. If I had a pal, that is."

His head shot up, and his clever spider's fingers gripped her arm. "Is that straight shit?"

"The straightest. If I had a pal," she repeated, "and that pal was busting his ass to get me data I needed, I'd get him those tickets and those passes."

Dickie's puffy eyes went moist. "I'm your new best friend."

"That's so sweet. Start feeding me results, Dickie, within the hour, and those tickets are in your greedy little hands. You find me something, anything that gives me a line on this guy, and I'll see to it Mavis plants a big, wet kiss right on your mouth."

She patted his head, started out. At the door she glanced back saw him standing, staring, his mouth still hanging slack. "Fifty-nine minutes, Dickie. Ticktock."

He all but leapt at his scope.

"Slick," Peabody said as they headed out. "You are so slick."

– =O=-***-=O=-

When they got back to Central, Eve sent Peabody off to write the initial report from the record and notes on-scene. And Eve made the miserable call to the next of kin.

It took longer than she had to spare, did little more than depress her. Bayliss's wife had no answers for her, and if there were any buried in the shock, it would take too long to dig them out.

The widow declined the option of making a video identification of the deceased, became increasingly hysterical, until her sister took over the 'link.

Eve could hear the woman sobbing in the background as a pretty, pale-cheeked brunette came on-screen. "There's no mistake?"

"No, there's no mistake. I can arrange for a counselor from the local police department to come by your hotel."

"No, no, she'll do better with me. She'll do better with family. Strangers only make it worse. She bought him cuff links this afternoon. God."

The brunette shut her eyes, took a breath. She seemed to steady, which did a great deal for Eve's peace of mind. "We'll arrange to come back immediately. I'll take care of it. I'll take care of my sister."

"Contact me as soon as possible. I'll need to speak with Ms. Bayliss again. I'm sorry for your loss."

Eve sat back, stared at the blank screen.

Kohli, Mills, Bayliss. She took a mental step away from the evidence and tried to see the people. Cops. Though they'd all carried badges, each one had carried his differently. All, she was certain, had known their killer. The first two had known him well enough to trust him.

Especially Kohli. A late-night chat over drinks in an empty club. That was something you did with a friend. Still, he'd talked of a meeting with his wife. If he meant that literally, perhaps it had been more an associate than a friend. One he'd respected. Someone he'd felt he could ask advice. Informally. Over a beer.

Someone, she thought, from his own house. Someone, she suspected, who had some link to Ricker.

"Computer, compile roster from Precinct One two-eight, this city, including any retirees within the last two, no correction, within the last three years. Run a search and scan for any cases or investigations connected to any police officer of said precinct regarding Max Ricker. Secondary search and scan, same parameters regarding… what was his name, the son. Alex. Alex Ricker. Final search and scan, include any investigation wherein Canarde acted as representative during interview or court appearance."

Working… multitask request of this nature will require minimum of four hours-twenty minutes to complete…

"Then you'd better get your ass in gear."

Command unknown. Please rephrase command…

"Christ. Begin task."

She fueled up on coffee and let the computer hum while she ducked out and into the conference room. On that unit, she brought up all the current data on Vernon. She should've been able to run the data on her machine while the search and scan was in progress. It was a new one, a gem compared to the whining, stuttering heap she'd been stuck with before.

But she didn't trust her luck.

She spent an hour going over Vernon's data. She'd be pulling him into interview shortly. She intended to hit him and hit him hard.

The coffee was wearing off and the words beginning to blur when her communicator beeped.

"Dallas?"

"I'm going to get me a big sloppy tongue kiss."

"I never said anything about tongues," Eve said, and made a mental note to warn Mavis to keep her mouth locked tight when Dickhead was backstage. "What have you got, Dickie?"

"Something that should make even your cold, cold heart pitty-patter. I got a little swab of Seal-It off the edge of the tub."

"Jesus, tell me you got a print, I'll kiss you myself."

"Cops always want a miracle." He hissed out a breath, deflated. "What I got is Seal-It. My guess is he used it to protect his hands and feet, but he got a little carried away with it. You know what happens if you hit it too thick?"

"Yeah it glops some. You can knock or scrape it on something and end up leaving some behind. Damn it, Dickie, what the hell does a swab of Seal-It give me?"

"You want to hear this, or you want to mouth off? He knocked some of the seal off, probably when he was getting your guy thrust up for the last spin in the bubble tub. That's why it's pretty damn likely this little piece of fingernail I got, which my diligence and sharp skills located, is your killer's."

She held herself level. "Have you checked the DNA against Bayliss's?"

"What do I look like? A moron?"

She opened her mouth, reminded herself she needed him, and virtuously shut it again. "Sorry, Dickie, it's been a long night."

"Tell me. It doesn't match Bayliss. I got it-and I mean it's barely a sliver, the little darling-off the underside of the tape. Got Bayliss's hair with it. You figure that came off his arm, as that's the location label on the evidence bag, but you don't figure to get a piece of the dead guy's nail on the under side of the tape, do you?"

"No, no, you don't. Goddamn, Dickie, that's good. That's beautiful. I think I'm falling in love with you."

"They all do, in the end. Got the prelim data coming through now." He shot across the room on his favored rolling chair. "Male. Caucasian male. Can't give you much more than that right now. You want me to try to pin down approximate age and heritage and all that happy stuff, it's going to take time. And I ain't got a lot of this sucker to work with. Could be I'll find more. He broke the seal one place, might be he broke it another. So far, the only hair is from Bayliss."

"Keep on it. Good work, Dickie."

"Yeah. You know what, Dallas? You bring this guy in, we'll nail him in court. Get it? Nail him."

"Yeah, I get it. That's a real knee-slapper."

She cut transmission, sat back.

A sliver of a fingernail, she thought. Sometimes a man could hang for nothing more than that.

A sliver of a fingernail. Carelessness. The first small chink of it.

Thirty pieces of silver. Symbolism. Religious symbolism. If the victims were Judas, who was the Christ figure? Not the murderer, she decided as her mind drifted. Christ was the sacrifice, he was the pure. The Son. What was the phrase?

The only begotten Son.

A personal message to the primary. Conscience. The killer had a conscience, and his mistake with Kohli troubled him enough that he needed to soothe it by explaining, by justifying. And by setting up an ultimatum.

Bring down Ricker. It circled back to Ricker.

Ricker. The Son. Purgatory.

Roarke.

Business, she thought. Old business.

– =O=-***-=O=-

She was in bed, in the dark, but she wasn't sleeping. It wasn't safe to sleep, to let herself hide in dreams.

He was drinking, and he wasn't alone.

She could hear words when their voices raised, and they raised often. It was her father's voice she focused on, because he was the one who might slide into the dark with her if he didn't drink enough. Just enough. He would come in, make a shadow in the doorway with the light hard and bright behind him.

If he was angry with the man, and not drunk enough, he would hurt her. Maybe just slaps, maybe. If she was lucky.

But if she wasn't lucky, his hands would bruise and squeeze-and his breath, candy-scented-would begin to come fast and hard. The ragged T-shirt she wore to sleep in would be no defense. Her pleas and struggles would only make him mad, make him mad so his breathing got faster, faster, like a big engine.

Then he would put his hand over her mouth, cutting off her air, cutting off her screams as he pushed his thing into her.

"Daddy's got something for you, little girl. Little bitch."

In her bed she shuddered and listened.

She was not yet eight.

"I need more money. I'm the one taking the risks. I'm the one putting my ass out there."

His voice was slurred, but not enough. Not yet enough.

"We made the deal. Do you know what happens to people who fuck with me? The last employee who tried to… renegotiate terms didn't live long enough to regret it. They're still finding small pieces of him in the East River."

This voice was quiet; she had to strain to catch it. But he wasn't drunk. No, no, she knew the sound of a man who'd been drinking, and this wasn't it. Still, the tone had her shivering. There was a nasty undercurrent to the cultured voice.

"I'm not looking for trouble, Ricker." There was a whine now, which had her cringing. If he was afraid, he'd hurt her. And he'd use his fists. "I got expenses. I got a daughter to raise."

"I'm not interested in your personal life but in my merchandise. See that it's delivered tomorrow night, at the appropriate time and place, you'll get the rest of your fee."

"It'll be there."

A chair scraped the floor. "For your sake-and your daughter's-it better be. You're a drunk. I dislike drunks. See that you're sober tomorrow night."

She heard footsteps, the door opening, closing. Then silence.

It was broken by the smashing of glass, of roaring oaths. In her bed she trembled and braced for the worst.

The walls shook. He was pounding his fists on them. Better than on her, was all she could think. Let him beat the walls, let him find another bottle. Please, please, let him go out to find more to drink, to find someone else to punish.

Please.

But the door of her room burst open. He stood, a shadow, big, dark, with the light bright and hard behind him.

"What're you staring at? You been listening to my private conversations? You been poking your nose in my business."

No. No. She didn't speak, only shook her head fast and fierce.

"I ought to leave you here for the rats and the cops. Rats'll chew your fingers off, and your toes. Then the cops'll come. You know what they do to little girls who don't mind their own?"

He lumbered to her, dragging her up by the hair so fire burst in her scalp and she cried out despite her efforts to stay quiet.

"They put them in dark holes in the ground and leave them there so bugs crawl into their ears. You wanna go into a little dark hole, little girl?"

She was crying now. She didn't want to, but the tears simply spurted out. He slapped her. Once, twice, but it was almost absent-minded, and she began to hope.

"Get your lazy ass out of bed and pack your junk. I got places to go, people to see. We're heading south, little girl."

He smiled then, a big, toothy grin that left his eyes wild. "Ricker thinks he scares me. Well, hell I got the first half of his money and his goddamn drugs. We'll see who has the last laugh. Mother fucking Max Ricker."

As she scrambled to obey, stuffing what clothes she had into a bag, she could only think she was saved, for one night, she was saved. Thanks to a man named Max Ricker.

– =O=-***-=O=-

Eve shot out of sleep with her heart pounding, her throat dry.

Ricker. Oh God. Ricker and her father.

She gripped the arms of the chair to steady herself, to keep herself in the now. Had it been real or just a product of fatigue and imagination?

Real. When those little flashes of the past came to her, they were always real. She could see herself, a tangle of hair, huge eyes, skinny arms, huddled in the bed like an animal in a cave.

She could hear the voices.

Leaning forward, she pressed her fingers to her temples. Max Ricker had known her father. In New York. Yes, she was sure they'd been in New York that night. How long had it been before they'd landed in Dallas? How long before the night she'd found the knife in her hand when her father was raping her?

How long before the night when she'd killed him?

Long enough for the money to run low. Long enough, she realized, for Ricker to have been hunting, to have set wolves on the trail of the man who'd stolen from him.

But she'd ended it first.

Rising, she paced the room. What had happened then didn't apply now, and she couldn't allow it to interfere with her investigation or influence her.

And yet, what sneering twist of fate had brought this circle around again? Ricker to her father. Ricker to Roarke.

And without question, Ricker to herself.

What choice did she have but to end it again?